i returned to the world a mere shell of my former being. literally. i lost six pounds after lying in bed for four days straight. it may be the way i turned sudafed, water, oatmeal and oranges into my own perverted food pyramid. or the feverish night terrors that had me tossing and turning and heaving and gasping in ways that jane fonda wishes she had invented, wrapped in leg warmers, recorded, packaged and sold. or maybe those gooey phlegm balls i hacked into my kitchen drain weigh more than i imagined.
all i know is that today i stepped on the scale and i was in a whole new genre of numbers. a happier genre. a friendlier genre. a place of whimsy and sexy jeans. a place where people finally notice me for something important -- my ass -- instead of the things i say or do or drink. i like me here. i'm much more marketable.
four days sick in bed equals two months on a treadmill. i like that math. now lets go lick some kleenixes from the dumpster behind st. luke's hospital.
so i had a bit of spring in my step as i showered and later pranced to my room to put on a pair of pants that were iffy two weeks ago.
then -- cue the sound of a needle scratching a record -- the mirror defogged in front of me.
i lost six pounds. in my boobs.
the poor little twins look emaciated. anemic and anorexic. like the braille translation of a pretty short book.
my ta-tas went toodles; my airbags deflated; i sunk my battleships; my knockers were KO'd. titties turned itty-titty teeny; the jugs are empty; the gazoongas are gaz-gone-ga; my cans, cannot; my "yeah-baby's" are merely "eh-maybe's?" my mammaries are a memory; the hooters went ka-poot. the b-52s have been shot down; the alps are easier to climb; the guns got no ammo; my headlamps burnt out.
the fun bags? not so fun anymore. i'm a little melon-choly.
